Utopia
by Gage93
Summary: Childhoods, first times and the delicate search for something better.  Very mature.


**Disclaimer: **Borrowed, borrowed, borrowed

**Spoilers: **_Unfriendly Skies, One Hit Wonder, Nesting Dolls, Still Life, Ending Happy, Young Man with a Horn, _and hints at a few others.

**A/N: **Very, very mature.

**Utopia**

For a long time, when Sara Sidle thought of her childhood, she used to try to picture it in black and white. It was a method of detachment, a way to deal with her reality. Picturing her early youth in black and white could obscure so much. When she did that, her home could appear more normal, average, typical, closer to an ideal. In the black and white images, they were the model family, she the model daughter of the model parents with the slightly off model, slightly mischievous, but very average older brother. She could imagine the average family, the nice house, with the all the layers of paint grey so that you could not tell that the outer layers were peeling off. The house held a working father, stay at home mother, two kids and a pet dog. In her dreams, she had a dog.

Her images of life at home looked more like the Cleavers than the Sidles, an old black and white situation comedy where differences of opinions would result in light hearted arguments rather than beatings, and childhood antics would result in family conversations instead of severe punishment. The purple and blue so prevalent on her mother's face, or her face, or her brother's face, would fade into grey skin tones, the black and white image obscuring the bruises and comedy could resume.

In her picture, her mother was conciliatory and not instigating, pushy or antagonistic; her father was good humored and not impatient, violent and hiding a volatile temper. In black and white, her mother's thin frame and features didn't appear so gaunt or so pale. Her father carried a brief case and wore a suit rather than carrying a wrench and wearing coveralls. They appeared average, the average, model family in a black and white sitcom. The fights became humorous misunderstandings. She and her brother gravitated towards her parents, sharing with them rather than running and hiding.

"_Honey, I'm home." Her father entered the porch as her mother rushed out of the kitchen._

"_Darling, I'm so sorry, dinner will be late. My basket weaving club ran a little over today and the lines at the grocery store were unbelievable."_

"_Laura, it's 6:00. You know how I like to eat supper right at 6:00, the standard hour set aside for dinner."_

"_Oh, Walt."_

_Sara's father chuckled humorously. "Oh, well," he spoke, pecking his wife's lips. "How long will it be? You know we have bridge with the Andersons tonight."_

"_Only fifteen more minutes, dear. I'll have plenty of time to clean up before Robert and Betty get here."_

"_Fifteen minutes?" He stopped, looking properly chastising before smiling widely. "Laura, darling, you had me worried."_

_They both laughed._

_Young Sara, seven years old, came bounding down the stairs. "Daddy!" Her father scooped her up into his arms, carrying her to his favorite chair and setting her down on his lap._

"_Hello, princess. What did you do today?"_

"_I played hide and go seek with Ellen and Millie when Aunt Gladys came over. Look what I found in Ritchie's room," she spoke, holding out a bag of dirt._

_Her father took the bag and studied it, frowning. He picked her up off his lap and placed her on the floor. "Ritchie," he called, "come down here."_

_Sara's mother entered the room just as her brother sprinted down the stairs. "What is it, Walt?"_

_"It's the reefer." Sara's father turned to Ritchie, holding up the bag. "Son, where did you get this from?"_

"_Jimmy Conners gave it to me."_

"_And what have I told you about this stuff?"_

_Ritchie looked down at his feet. "It's very bad?"_

"_That's right, and yet, you still took it."_

"_Gee, dad, Jimmy said a little wouldn't do any harm and I only wanted to try it."_

"_And did you?"_

"_Some of it."_

"_Ritchie!" Sara's mother cut in._

"_I'm awfully sorry mother, but I only tried a little and it made me feel so good."_

"_Young man, it is dangerous and wrong. You knew that, which is why you hid it from us. You know what that means."_

"_Aw, geeze, Dad."_

"_No more playing with your friends for a week, no more money for the soda fountain for a month and no more hanging out with Jimmy Conners."_

"_Aw, shucks."_

"_Now, wash up for dinner and we'll continue this talk later."_

"_Yes, sir." Her brother slunk away._

It was so much better than the real situation, where her brother's being grounded for a year was the least of his troubles, where her mother was beat for letting it happen in her house, where Sara was hit to serve as a warning and where her father took the pot to smoke himself later, rather than disposing of it.

It was easier to imagine it in black and white, to reorganize her history and her consciousness to better deal with her life. For a long time, everything came to her in those tones, everything up to that night. That night had started out in black and white, the sudden silence, coming down the stairs slowly, wearing only a nightgown, one hand sliding along the rail, wide eyes peering forward, slow, quiet steps to the bottom of the stairwell, the young cop throwing up and then looking up at her with a smile because everybody almost always wore a smile in those old situation comedies, turning to the living room, the hall, her parents' bedroom, black and white figures in police uniforms talking softly and parting before her, her mother's figure standing over her father, blood on her mother's hands and dress, spattering the walls, and pooling around her father's prone body, the crimson red sticking out in stark contrast to the black and white scene. Somebody had let in the red.

* * *

The first nine years of Gilbert Grissom's life could have been in black and white. His father was brilliant and warm and successful. His mother was loving and intelligent and artistic, had her own income and still came home in time to make a delicious dinner and hot apple pie. His mother tucked him in and read with him. His father taught him about plants and bugs, watched Roy Rogers with him, played catch with him and took him to Dodger Stadium to watch Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale, Maury Wills and Willie Davis. He watched the Dodgers win the Pennant, and then, the World Series. He started little league and made new friends, had childhood girlfriends and ran about the neighborhood, a bright, inquisitive, outgoing child. It all changed that afternoon his father wouldn't wake up. He didn't understand and nobody would give him a proper explanation. They treated it with the same flowery explanation and misunderstanding he would expect from an actual situation comedy. Sometimes he imagined them telling him like it was a sitcom and almost like he'd lost his favorite childhood pet rather than his hero.

"_What happened to Daddy?"_

"_Oh, Gilbert, your daddy went to live on a farm."_

"_Why?"_

"_He couldn't stay here any more. He'll be much happier there. He'll have all of that room to run around and just think of all of the plants he'll have to study."_

_He looked at his mother confused, wondering why his father had been asleep when they decided that a farm would be the best place for him when his mother began again. __"Oh, and Gilbert, __you'll have to start speaking more slowly, looking at me when you talk and using your hands too, because my ears have been going to the farm to visit Daddy, so that I can hear your father when he wants to tell me something."_

"_I want to go to the farm too."_

"_I'm sorry, Gilbert, but you have to stay here with me. My voice stayed so that I can pass your daddy's stories on."_

Sometimes he even pictured his mother without ears. From then on, his life turned from a situation comedy to a silent movie. Like so many people who lose someone, he turned inward. He quit little league because it was too hard to look at all of the other boys' fathers up in the stands. He searched for understanding in dead animals that had washed up on the beach, cutting them open to see why they wouldn't wake. He played only with his bugs and thought of that afternoon over and over again, the black and white image of a young boy, watching Trigger on television as his father napped behind him, his mother bringing in drinks, frantically trying to wake his father up, and the flashing red lights from the ambulance invading his black and white childhood.

* * *

The first time Sara had sex, she was fifteen. He was a neighbor, nineteen years old, and she had a crush on him because he looked more than a little like Bowie. He was her height, thin, and wore more make-up than she did. Buzzed on coolers one night, sitting next to him in his back yard during a party and sharing a cigarette, listening to him take a long drag of the butt before handing it to her, she felt him slide his hand between her legs. Startled, she jumped and flinched and dropped the cigarette and her cooler onto the ground, sliding down the bench, but he slid closer.

"Ssh," he whispered, his hand sliding back between her legs, twisting sideways to move over her and then inching into the waist of her jeans. She was tense as he turned her sideways, straddling the bench behind her, pressing into her butt and rubbing his hand up and down, over her. Her eyes focussed on the lit butt, watching his foot land and pivot on it, grinding the butt into the ground and extinguishing it. Her fingers gripped the edges of the bench. His teeth nibbled on her ear lobe. His tongue dipped into her ear canal. "Relax, Sara," he whispered, licking the rim of her ear.

Through the haze of the alcohol, his touch felt so good and so she relaxed and let him run his hand over her underwear and allowed his tongue to play in her ear. When his hand dipped into her panties, she shot up off of the bench in shock, not in displeasure, swaying on her feet, dizzy from alcohol. He stood behind her, one hand inching under her top and pressing flat against her stomach, holding her tight to him, keeping her steady, rubbing himself along her butt and her back.

"Relax," he whispered again, tonguing her ear and dipping his hand back beneath her underwear. His fingers rubbed over her, the middle one pushing in, slowly and then faster. Soon the rubbing became frantic, his breaths heavy. His tongue flickered in and out of her ear canal, his moans loud in her ears as he rubbed against her.

One hand lifted, stretching her underwear before slapping her and curling around her, violently lifting her off of her feet, causing pain, not quite unpleasant and slightly arousing, to surge through her. She cried out and whimpered and he did it again, slapping her crotch and jerking her off of her feet. It hurt, but she was torn between wanting his touch and wanting the touch not to cause so much pain. He repeated the movement again, his hand between her legs, his middle digit pressing in, yanking her up and this time, holding her in the air, one arm around her stomach so he could support her, but letting most of the weight fall onto his fingers between her legs, leaving her gasping in staggering and overwhelming pain. Her arms hanging limply at her sides, he jerked her up and down, the impact between her legs excrutiating, rubbing her against him, his skinny arms surprisingly strong. Violent and aggressive, the movement of his hand beneath her hurt, but she was used to pain, and, at fifteen, couldn't differentiate that pain from any of the other pain she'd experienced in her life. Besides, painful as it could be, something about it felt good at the same time, and she could hear how good she was making him feel. She felt wet and sticky and warm, and his groans had her all coiled in a hazy sort of tension she yearned to understand. She wanted to touch herself, or have him touch her again, with more gentleness this time, squeeze his hand between her legs and keep it there. She wanted to rub herself over his arm, ease the pain and the new, more delightful ache that settled between her legs, but instead let him kept yanking on her, rubbing over her and dipping his tongue in and out of her ear.

She couldn't speak, could only gasp, so she just let him continue his powerful, erratic movements. His fingers slid lower and entered her, two of them forcing their way in and lifting her right up off, tearing her open and causing her to scream out silently. He bucked against her and she could feel his fingers leave her underwear and fumble with the snap on her jeans. His hand moved between their bodies, fumbling with his zipper. Holding her steady against him, his hand tugged on her jeans and she felt his hand slide his dick into her underwear, tucking it between her butt cheeks before moving around her hips and sticking his fingers in her again. "Fuck, Sara," he moaned as he rubbed between her butt and pressed his palm down into her.

He laid her on the grass, pushed her jeans and underwear to her ankles, tugged his own over his butt, rolled a condom on and entered her. Even the alcohol could not dull the pain as he straddled her and jerked above her.

His movements were frantic, fast and she just lay below him, waiting for him to finish. Unable to make a sound and needing to clutch at something, she squeezed clumps of grass between her fingers and pictured her childhood in black and white, while he alternated between moans of, "Jesus Sara", "Oh, yeah" and "how does that feel?" like the movements he was making could actually make her feel good.

Her body, not used to being invaded or feeling the rapid, jerky movements inside her, squeezed tight and pushed him out a few times, but he just kept repositioning himself and pushing back in, sinking deeper so that he would not fall out again. Finally, he collapsed, pulled out of her, and tugged his jeans back up. He kissed her where he'd fucked her, grinning up at her with blood on his teeth. "Jesus, Sara Jane, you were brilliant, a fucking brilliant virgin goddess," he said and she blushed, despite the pain. Then, she laid there, feeling as though she was about to throw up, as he returned to his party. Curling onto her side, her head swimming, she lay thinking about the past few minutes and the incredible pain she was in. She knew that at one point, somebody had walked out and saw them, but nobody said anything about the nineteen year old man fucking the fifteen year old girl on his back lawn.

They began having sex everywhere, his room, his father's tool shed, the beach, under the bleachers of her high school's football field, his car, her bedroom. When all of her fosters were out, parents and siblings, and she was home alone, he'd sneak into her house and take her. He'd even snuck into her bathroom once, surprising her in the shower and pressing her up against the glass as water sprayed over them. At night he'd sneak in through her window, strip off his cloths and climb into her bed, naked. If she was awake, she'd roll to her back and allow him to climb on. If she was asleep, he'd shove his hand between her legs, his tongue into her ear and fondle her until she was awake and then she'd roll over or he'd roll her onto her stomach, lift her hips and climb on. She'd let him because he looked like Bowie and paid attention to her and complimented her and compliments were something she hardly ever received as a child. He appealed to the science nerd in her, telling her he was teaching her about biology and chemistry, giving her first hand knowledge of the two subjects.

She craved his approval and his attention and let him do pretty much anything to her, allowing him to experiment on her and fulfill all of his sexual desires. And he did, taking her in the shower, from behind, riding her on the floor, shoving her head down to take him in the mouth, standing over her, fucking her mouth while she laid below him, yanking on her hair from above her or behind her. He had a fixation with her ears and with her crotch. He'd rub his dick over her ear and pretend to push it into her canal. Sometimes she woke and his head would be between her legs, his tongue flicking rapidly back and forth. His hands would slide over her legs to wrap them around his head and he would fuck her with his tongue and jerk off below her.

He told her she had a sweet pussy or a fucking amazing cunt and she responded by letting him lick it while she gave him a blow job. For his twentieth birthday, she let him lick and nibble her butt and try giving it to her up the ass even when the pain coursed through her body. For her sixteenth birthday, he poured beer over her and had her straddle his face so he could snack on her while she reached back and jacked him off. He shaped her and she let him because he looked like Bowie and though many people had called her smart, her teachers leading the way on that one, he was the only one to ever call her pretty.

One day, he brought his girlfriend home, and she crossed their paths in his driveway. Relaxed, smirking, he introduced them, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, his arm wrapping around his girlfriend's shoulder, sending a clear signal. Her emotions in a tangle, she felt completely humiliated, but what did she expect when he stuck his tongue in her ear and her anus, but never her mouth. He never looked at her during sex, but to grin up at her. He laughed when she cried out in pain, treated her like a blow up doll, or sometimes like an ignorant girl, even though she was graduating in less than a year and he'd dropped out of school. His hands were always confined to below her waist. His touch caused her more pain than pleasure and though everything they did was completely consensual, as much as a screwed up fifteen year old could consent to, everything they did was what he wanted, when he wanted. He just had to shove his hand down her pants and he'd get sex. He flattered her and she would never say no. She sought his approval and he gave her validation. She couldn't imagine him having someone else when she gave him everything. And then he introduced her to his girlfriend and she had to swallow the bile rising up in her throat. He winked at her and she stormed away, swearing she'd never let him manipulate her again.

That night, he snuck into her room clutching a cheap bottle of wine. She rolled away from him, knowing he was stripping behind her. He crawled into her bed, naked, and stuck his tongue into her ear and slipped his hand between her legs. She elbowed him and shuffled away, but his hand kept rubbing over her and it felt so good.

"Come on, Sara Jane, she is nothing compared to you," but she was his girlfriend and Sara was his play toy. He shaped her and used her to create his ideal sexual world, taking a virgin and creating a woman who would and could do anything he wanted in bed. His girlfriend probably wouldn't let him try half the things he did with Sara.

He nibbled on her earlobe and she rolled over, slapping him, but he only grinned, and took a swig of wine, handing it to her and sliding his fingers into her folds. She took a drink of wine, watching him slither down her body and flick his tongue over her. Her body betrayed her. She moaned and bucked and he grinned up at her. He poured more alcohol down her throat, the cheap wine taking immediate effect, her senses blurring, her mind dulling, her past coming back in black and white, more film noir than situation comedy, and she let him get one last fuck in before pushing him out of her life forever.

She continued to date and do anything to please her date in bed. The next guy she dated resembled Jim Morrison, baby face, hazel eyes, and this time she was the girlfriend. They were both undergrads and physics majors. They held hands and went out to dinner and shared long, lingering kisses. He paid attention to her and complimented her, showed up at Chuck E Cheese while she was working, just to hang out. He told her she was pretty and told her he was in awe and a little intimidated by her intelligence and even though she would do anything in bed, she still found another woman's underwear in his dorm room. Again, she was humiliated, but she suspected he only continued to go out with her because she would try anything he wanted. She broke up with him because the compliments and attention he gave her felt empty when he was giving it to someone else. Even looking like Jim Morrison did not redeem him.

The rest of her undergrad years she kept it casual. She had sex with her organic chem lab TA in an airplane bathroom, 38,000 ft. in the air because he looked a little like Jonny Greenwood from Radiohead, but with hazel eyes. He ignored her afterwards, until he was hammered in South Beach, searching for a good lay. She stopped looking for guys who looked like rock stars, but that did not stop the guys she dated from treating her like a groupie. Nice guys, guys she could be serious about, still trod over her. Over and over, the men she dated used her and still, she kept waiting for something better, because the odds had to turn in her favor one day. She couldn't imagine what she could have done in a past life to deserve such a raw deal in this one. There had to be a big payoff for all the suffering she'd been through, otherwise, what the hell was she still doing there?

When she first saw Dr. Gil Grissom, he did not look like any rock star she'd ever seen, had blue eyes and not hazel, but that did not stop him from being sexy as hell. He began speaking and she began to imaging what it would sound like to have his voice breathe her name over her skin. He was it and she knew it. He'd treat her with as much respect as he treated his subject. He was good and decent and honorable. His intelligence matched hers; his understanding surpassed hers and that left her more that a little intimidated. She could tell by the way he moved his hands how incredible it would be to feel his hands move over her. She yearned for him and took in everything he said, had conversations with him and felt herself falling more and more in love with him.

She took what she could get from him, however little that was and confined every other guy she met to the friend zone, where the guy would stay until she felt lonely and low and until the friend would stick his hand down her pants and then she would begin having sex with him, indulging in attention, fooling herself into thinking she liked him more than she did, or he liked her more than he did and feeling humiliated when it all fell apart, the gratifying, gratuitous sex not enough to hold together the relationship. If not for the humiliation and the pain from fooling herself into believing that somebody could supplant Gil Grissom, she doubted she would even care. The sex was tedious, as it was bound to be when her heart was elsewhere and so she said never again and resigned herself to either being celibate for the remainder of her life, or one day, hopefully being wrapped up in Grissom's arms.

* * *

The first time Gil Grissom had sex, he was twenty, a junior in college, and had just begun going out with a lively, intelligent, stunning, seductive coed. It had taken two years in college to come out of isolation and become the quirky, outgoing scientist he was, and the welcome he received was mind blowing. He got a girlfriend, a siren who offered to do all sorts of carnal things to his body. Her suggestions had him hard in an instant. She whispered in his ear, asked him if he wanted to fuck or to screw and led him into her dorm room where she would do any number of things to his body while he lay below her.

She would lick and suck the entire length of his torso, take him in her mouth and leave him without a coherent thought. The first time she laid him out, he jerked beneath her touch, while she slid her hand over him until he begged her to let him enter her. He fumbled with a condom, and then another, and finished far too quickly, but she looked more amused than upset. She teased him and called him virgin, and delighted in showing him how to please her. She liked to experiment and he loved a good experiment. Most of the time, she preferred to be on top, setting the pace and riding him while he lay below her. Her breasts would bounce when she impaled herself on him and continue to bounce as she moved over him, and when she caught him staring, she would laugh and bend forward and rub them in his face.

It did not bother him that she was way more experienced. No, indeed, he got to reap the benefits of that. No, it bothered him that they were always fucking, or screwing, but never making love, or even having sex. "Let's fuck," she'd whisper, taking him by the hand as her tongue slid over the rim of his ear. When he'd counter with, "Let's make love," she'd laugh, run her tongue over his ear again and say, "Same thing."

He didn't correct her because her touch was magic, her body was captivating, her tongue was oh, so arousing, and he was so much in awe of having her, he could only follow. She was brilliant and sultry, gorgeous, and he was so much in awe, he thought he was in love with her. He let her nails scratch over his back and dig painfully into his shoulders, he ignored her ridiculously loud vocalizations and her vulgar language and let her fuck him rather than make love because the sex was incredible and he couldn't believe somebody that vivacious wanted to be with him. He didn't care that she often bit down on him when she was angry during sex because she was brilliant and intriguing, and he wondered if she thought that the bite would be arousing rather than just painful.

She listened to him. She saw him. For so long, the only person who saw him could not hear him and it felt so comforting to be seen and heard at once. He actually believed he was in love, until he realized that he wasn't. He had rather stay in the labs and work, or shut himself into his apartment, than go to her dorm, play poker to earn money for his specimens and cadavers for a body farm than screw his girlfriend, spend money on his experiments than a gift or even dinner for her. Going to her dorm felt like a chore. Having her in his apartment felt like an invasion. He got tired of hearing her whisper in that same saucy, seductive, suggestive tone, "Let's fuck," and began insisting on trying to make love instead. Her laughs and "same thing's" turned into shows of annoyance. She hated that he rather spend time on a science experiment that on experimenting with her body. He hated that she'd rather engage in mindless, soulless sex rather than making love. He hated that she wouldn't let herself be vulnerable to him when he was so damned vulnerable to her.

They actually broke up during sex. It was painful and humiliating, even though the split was decidedly mutual. There must, he thought, be some advantage to being the woman in that situation and having the ability to leave without painfully obvious outward show of arousal. He hated that she had been able to smirk at his erection, knowing he'd have to finish himself off, and for the final touches of revenge, arousing him further. The humiliation had been entirely on his side, under the weight of her amused stare, even though, ultimately, he was the one who would not commit to her.

It happened after a weekend of playing cards in Las Vegas. He'd been paying a higher rent on a studio apartment rather than a dorm to fit more specimens, spending more money on more specimens and purchasing cadavers to begin a body farm, finding he had no money left for dates. A good weekend in Vegas brought him funds for a couple more cadavers, a couple more unusual insects and a couple of dates. He planned on taking her out, finally, when she showed up at his house, clutching a bottle of champagne by the neck. She slid by him in the doorway, rubbing against him, and kicking the door closed behind her. The hand carrying the champagne flung around his neck, her arm resting on top of it. Her other hand slid into his jeans, and then into his briefs, grasping him. She leaned forward, whispering, "Let's fuck." Her hand stroked him and he was hard, not in the mood for arguing about her choice of words.

Yanking her against him, he pushed his leg between hers and she smirked, sliding her body along his led. Dancing right off of him, her leg spun around, her hand left his pants in a most graceful display of nimbleness. She sauntered by him and he marveled at her lithe figure. God, she was supple. Watching the entrance to the kitchen, he gazed at her as she returned, two flutes and the bottle of champagne, now open, in her hands.

Her finger pushed on his chest, backing him up until he fell back onto his sofa, and then straddled him, pouring the champagne into the flutes and handing him one. He clutched the flute, sipping it as she took large sips of her own and rubbed her body against him. She moved all over him, giving him a lap dance, and removing his clothing piece by piece. Pouring herself another glass, she alternated between sips of her champagne and licks along the length of his erection. The feel of the champagne and tongue on him had him fidgeting and bucking and had his eyes closing as he desperately tried to control his body and prayed for her to hurry up before he lost control.

Her own cloths came of, piece by piece, and she positioned herself above him, slamming down on his erection. His eyes opened wide, but had to close again, the champagne and her movements making his brain a little fuzzy.

His position on the sofa, sunk back into the cushions made it difficult to move with her and he found the attempts awkward. She was still moving on him, unaware of his thoughts, only aware of his body, so he gave a gentle push on her thighs and slipped out beneath her. "Bedroom?" he breathed, the word coming out between gasps.

She grinned, taking her flute of champagne and throwing it back before grasping the bottle and skipping off to the bedroom. Shaking his head, his breaths coming in heavy and slowly receding, he threw his own flute of champagne back before following her to the room.

He found her spread out on the bed, half sitting, champagne bottle in her hand. He approached the bed slowly, a little weary of her position, legs bent and open, spread wide before him.

She cocked an eyebrow, a challenge, and he found himself answering, climbing over her and entering her. Her arm came around his neck. The champagne bottle dangled across his chest. He moved in her slowly, wanting to take time with her. She leaned up, nipping his ear, whispering seductively, "Fuck me, Gilbert."

He shook his head and stared down at her. "No. Tonight I'm going to make love to you."

Her head fell back, her arm dropped from his neck. Her eyes darkened. "Christ, Gil, why do you always have to do this?"

"Do what?"

She rolled her eyes. "You know what."

"It's important."

"It's semantics."

He looked down at her, wondering why he was pressing the issue when he had this intoxicatingly beautiful body beneath him. It was great sex, so why should he care what she called it? He shook his head and began moving in her again, still keeping the pace slow. She leaned up and whispered, baiting him, "Fuck me, Gilbert. Make me cum."

He stopped again, pulling out of her and rolling off to the side. Why should he care? He did. He thought he was in love, and wanted to make love. He sat up on the bed.

"Fuck Gil, what are you doing? I want to fuck."

"I don't." His voice was loud and low. "I'm not fucking you tonight. I hate that word…those words." He paused, looking down at himself, seated on the bed. "Unless you want to make love…"

She pushed herself to a half seated position. "It's the same fucking thing."

"It's not."

"It is."

He shook his head, staring at her. His voice was quiet. "It isn't."

"How the fuck would you know? Who the fuck else have you ever screwed?"

He sighed. "Nobody. You know that." There was a slight pause and he looked at her. "I've also never made love. I used to think that was what we were doing, but I've realized we've never done that. It's always been fucking." He winced as he said the word. "This is the ideal situation for you. You get to have all the sex you want without really giving anything of yourself. You think you can do that because you're with an inexperienced man and you're showing him a whole new world. You loved that I was a virgin when I met you because it gives you something to hold over me. You think you can shape me into anything you like, the perfect lover for you, someone you can fuck to your little heart's desire however and whenever you want. You can have all the mind blowing, meaningless, frantic, rough sex and never make love because you think that I don't know the difference."

"Make love?" She scoffed. "It's not like this is a real relationship and you are guilty of this just as much as I am."

"What are you talking about?"

"We don't go on dates. We go to my dorm or your apartment and we screw. Sure, sometimes we hang out while we study, but how often is that? Most of your studying is over some body or some bug, in a lab. Yeah, you make me the occasional dinner, when you take the time to eat yourself. The majority of your time, your money, your energy and your attention go to your work. This isn't a relationship, it's an affair. Until you can commit to one, we're just screwing around."

"I never thought we were just screwing around."

"Yeah, you thought we were making love." She scoffed again. "You want me to be vulnerable to you? Go fuck yourself, or better yet, go fuck a test tube. This isn't the kind of relationship I want. I want dates and presents and your fucking attention. When your can tell me you love me more than your work, or your insects, or your little experiments, we can make love."

He stared at her, saying nothing. He couldn't tell her that. Even in the beginning, when he didn't just think he was in love, but head over heels in love, he wouldn't have been able to tell her that. He'd been getting ready to take her on a date and he couldn't tell her that if the opportunity came to spend money on something else for his studies, he wouldn't immediately transfer the money there. Science always came first. His work, his studies, would always come ahead of her.

He watched her and noticed she looked a little vulnerable and realized that maybe her situation wasn't so ideal. She'd been giving herself and her body to a man who couldn't, didn't, wouldn't ever love her the way she probably needed, and who chose to find meaning in something else rather than in her. Sure, she was just fucking him while he thought he was in love with her, but as painful as that was, she was not entirely to blame. She'd been waiting for his relationship to her to come before his relationship to his studies, and that was never going to happen, not with her, and the realization gave him a pang of sadness.

"I think we'd better call it a day," she whispered, and he nodded. "Yeah."

She stood up, and faced him, naked before him. Her eyes moved from his face to his lap and she smirked, her final revenge coming. "You want help with that first? A parting fuck?"

His eyes widened and he twitched, his erection swelling and painfully hard.

She laughed and he felt sad at the prospect. He didn't want to "fuck" anymore. He shook his head, disillusioned with her once again. "No, thanks."

He watched as she sauntered closer, bending so that her breasts hung. She braced herself on her hands, one landing right by his lap. "You sure?"

Sighing, he looked into her eyes. "No."

Her thumb lifted from the mattress and traced over his erection making him twitch again. "You better deal with that."

"I have more will power than that."

Her hand wrapped around him. "Oh, I know you do." His hand landed on her wrist, removing her hand. She released him and leaned forward, kissing him softly, letting her tongue play over his. "Goodbye, Gilbert."

She stared down at him for awhile, the smirk plastered to her face. When she stood, he pulled a blanket over his lap, watching as she laughed and her naked body turned, disappearing from his room. Wrapping the blanket around his waist, he moved to the living room and watched her dress, looking on as she glanced back over her shoulder before walking out the door. He stared at the door for minutes before dropping the blankets, moving to the shower and finishing himself off.

Relationships and women that followed were always carefully scrutinized. A dopey crush could cause him to get ahead of himself or forget himself, but for the most part, he was always very aware of where the woman would stand. When he felt a connection, he sought it out, dated, analyzed whether he could love the woman more than the science. Often the sex was better because it was about the chemistry and the connection and the women would let him stare down at them and seek something in the union. There were a few he thought he may be able to care for, but time quashed those ideas. It was never making love and it didn't take many dates or many nights to realize the chemistry he shared with his date would never deepen into something more meaningful.

He tried to keep the break-ups civil, parting as friends when he was given the choice, a nice breakfast, some goodbye words with no hard feelings. Some women just left when they realized how quickly he would pass them over for his studies, or later, his job.

He still got crushes, felt dopey or intrigued, but years of having sex and never finding that deeper connection, falling truly in love, left him wondering and doubting he ever would. Even when there was strong chemistry, the women he dated were just fucking or screwing him, sex without meaning because it wasn't engaged in, in love. It was sex and coupling and if any of those women really thought differently, they were just fooling themselves as he had done all those years before.

When he met Sara Sidle, it scared the hell out of him. He felt the attraction, the connection, listened to her speak and knew that if he allowed himself to care for her, he would fall desperately in love with her. She could unravel him, leave him unhinged, but she was young and vivacious and it scared him. It wasn't that he thought she'd hate that he put work in from of her, because she was likely to do the same. It was partly that he did not know how they would balance it at work, but more than that, it was the difference in how he believed they would see the relationship.

He imagined her in any number of places, his hotel room, his home, his sofa, his bed, beneath him, over him, pressed against him, her long legs wrapped around him as they made love against a wall. He imagined her quirking a brow, looking impish and inviting, enticing, sultry, sensual, seductive, being suggestive and challenging, whispering in a low, husky tone, "fuck me," and his dream and his fantasy would die. In his imaginings, he heard her whispering, "screw me," and felt so incredibly sad, like he lost her before he had her, or like he'd never really had her. He imagined her tongue licking over his body, fucking him while he made love to her, breaking his heart. She was too young, too full of life, to do anything but seduce him. With her, it would always be making love for him, but he never once imagined it could be anything but fucking for her.

Years passed and even though he'd seen her emotional and vulnerable, heard hints that it would mean just as much to her as to him and he still imagined her sliding up against him, grinning a Cheshire grin, leaning forward and whispering suggestively into his ear, "Fuck me, Gilbert."

* * *

When they began sleeping together, they didn't call it anything. Grissom never shoved his hands down her jeans when he wanted a go and Sara never whispered, "Let's fuck," into his ear when she felt in the mood.

They gravitated towards each other, unable to deny each other, falling into an hug, holding onto each other, lips on her temple, a light peck, a soft kiss, a longer, lingering embrace, lapses in seconds that alluded to the slightest hints of awkwardness, roaming hands, sighs, moans, the leisurely removal of cloths while keeping their eyes completely fixed on each other, and, the bed. He explored her body, her entire body, kissed every inch of skin and she touched and traced every inch of his. He stared at her when he entered and she stared up at him when he moved over and in her. He above her, she below him, they moved in calm, sure, tender discovery, lost in the beauty of every imperfect piece of each other. It was slow and sweet and blinding in intensity, but they never took their eyes off of one another, not the first time, and not any time since.

It wasn't always slow because some times he just needed her so damn much, but even when it was frantic, it was different than with anyone before. It was need and desire and still, connection. Movements quick and needy, breaths rapid, their eyes still remained fixed. Sara didn't pull his hair or scrape his back, but, with soft, yet firm hands, held his body to her. Grissom didn't yank her around like a rag doll, but treaded over her body with a lightness of touch and reverence in his eyes. Her fingers ran through his curls, and her palms smoothed over her back and pulled him in. He lifted her legs and curled them around him to sink deeper, but his hand always ran over her leg, light pressure up and down, soothing and arousing, and he always kissed her as he pounded inside her. During their climaxes, Sara's mouth opened in gasps, most silent, and never cried out more than his name. Grissom found himself speaking more, but also never more than her name, repeated over and over, breathed into her skin.

They continued day after day, week after week, sleeping in her apartment or in his townhouse, communicating without words because they were afraid of saying anything. She was afraid that speaking aloud would end it all, shatter that bubble he seemed to be comfortable in and he'd leave. Grissom was afraid that he would call it making love and she would laugh at him, correct him, tell him he was a good lay and end the fantasy.

They talked around it and often, in his confusion over what it was, Grissom baited her. Sara was either conciliatory or instigating, but somehow it didn't matter what she was because they continued to sleep together and talk around it. Then, one day, they weren't talking around sex, but talking around love, and he knew, understood, how she felt. For one year, slow and incredible or frantic and mind blowing, he'd been making love. They had been making love. He stared at her, his eyes watering and full of wonder, full of love and gratitude and so many other overwhelming emotions. He shuffled over on the bed, making room for her and watched her rise from her knees to sit beside him, her hand landing on his arm and giving it a gentle, understanding squeeze before letting her hand rub lightly up and down.

He lifted his hands and opened her robe, and, in the slowest, most reverent exploration, and then, the slowest pace possible, he made love to her. Fingers dancing, lips brushing, it took a full hour before he entered her. It was the first time he actually made love, knowing what they were doing and he wanted it to last.

It took several months before they spoke around love again, and this time it was him finally finding a way to help her understand how he really felt. That day, when they arrived home from work, she stripped him and seduced him, and the only thing that was different than any other time, for her heart had always been open to him and on the line for him, was the way she also wordlessly promised to keep making him happy, her mouth kissing the promise across his chest, down his stomach, up his torso, his neck, his chin and sealing it on his lips. They explored each other, slow and sensual, making love and both knowing it, coupling with their partner in every sense of the word. Tears trickled from her eyes as she smiled up at him and he kissed her, his thumbs brushing away each tear. She thought of how long she'd wanted something perfect, like her old black and white imaginings, and how unrealistic those old shows she'd based her dreams on were, how unrealistic those dreams of her youth had been. What she'd found, what they'd found, was better. They'd found peace and love and it was real and worth more than all of those dreams together. Often it was rocky, painful and full of misunderstanding, but it was real.

She would never be part of the average happy family embodied in those old situation comedies; he would never recreate the blissful first nine years of his life that seemed like they were part of one. They worked jobs that reminded them of the horror in the world, that stole peace from their lives, but at certain small intervals of time, when it was just the two of them, lost in only each other, they could reach that near perfect state.

Her fingers trailed along his chest. His lips grazed over her skin.

U-

Staring down into her eyes, he rocked. His hands ran along her sides. The fingers on her one hand slid through his hair. The fingers on her other pressed into the sweaty small of his back as she moved with him.

to-

His lips pressed to her breastbone, brushing over the area of her heart and lingering. Her hips lifted. Her head tilted back, her mouth wide open in a gasp as she felt in moving and pulsing inside of her.

pi-

Falling into her, he kissed over her heart again. His hands brushed away the sweaty locks from her brow and his lips found her temple. He rolled onto his side. She curled into his arms, snuggling against him, her forehead falling to his chest as his arms came around her.

a-

Hands roaming slowly, breathing evening, eyes drifted shut. They slept.

_Fin_


End file.
